


Amantes sunt Amentes

by Dusty_Forgotten



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 04:38:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2053920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lovers are lunatics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Full Piece

“What an ugly little worm you-”

“Shut up. You’re the idiot who got yourself captured. Do you know you’re the first centurion in Legion history to disobey so deliberately? _Frustra es homo_.”

 _Worthless sort of person_. There- just briefly- he worried. She intimidated. Her rounded little woman’s chin stuck up, a leather jacket with sleeves a little too long, battle-scarred and bloodstained, and her voice, her voice said things of the Legion, jarring in her man’s octave, on a woman’s face.

“I don’t know why I’m bothering, but a man of the Legion is a friend of mine. How do I get you out?”

He’d hesitated, and she had jumped on it. She dominated the conversation. “There’s a silenced .22 in the weapons locker just outside. Bring it to me, and I can use it to make my escape.”

“You need a gun to get out? God, how did you ever make it to centurion?”

He was startled last time; that was all. Silus was never really quick on his wit, but he had time between interrogations to plot his comebacks. “From what I saw confiscated, you need several.”

“I’d prefer not to get my ass ruined going close-quarters with a deathclaw, thanks. One ranger, even I can handle- and I’ll admit, I’m kind of a pussy. Besides,” she tapped her left breast, a devious grin blooming, “not all of them got confiscated. Show me you’re not worth my time, I put a bullet in you, save the Legion assassin coming for your ass the trouble.”

Silus sneered. Then, he thought better, and straightened up in his seat. “Beat me around a little. Make it look good, give them a distraction to check on me while you grab the gun. I can handle it. Believe me, this is nothing compared to Legion training.”

“Oh, believe _me"_ , she said just before she dislocated his jaw, “I _know_.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Her name is Erin Holt; legionaries call her Courier Six, or either of those to shorten it. In his head- in his tent at night, alone, he calls her Minerva.

She wears the bull on her back, and the Mark of Caesar between her breasts. She carries herself as a man would- speaks a woman’s words in a man’s voice. She does not bow her head to men of the Legion, no centurion, nor Caesar. Legionaries whisper of “trying her out”. Those legionaries rush out of their tents with broken noses and bruised eyes, and she emerges, suckling blood from her knuckles, smiling. His fantasies are consensual after that.

Her biggest flaw (aside from the obvious womanhood) is a problem of all women he’s met: she speaks far too much. She speaks to legionaries- excitedly to Antony and angrily with Otho; to Lucullus the entire trip; to Vulpes, and Caesar himself, and Lucius, softly to Lucius, for hours with Lucius. When Lucius beds her, she leaves the tent shortly before dawn, and wears the bruises on her neck like rose petals.

That night, Silus slaughters a coyote and leaves it on the roof of Lucius’s tent. The blood drips through while he sleeps.

Silus knows not how to woo a woman. A concubine is plucked from the stock, bred, and if you are of high enough rank (for instance, a centurion, such as Silus) and she pleases you, you may claim ownership of her.

Erin will not be owned. That’s much of why he wants her.

He leaves a bottle of Nuka-Cola and a bowl of squirrel stew by the bedroll she frequents. She sells it.

He adorns the wall next to the bedroll with NCR dogtags collected from his kills. She trades them to Severus.

He creates a sculpture to her battle prowess out of dead mirelurks. She cooks it.

Caesar no longer trusts him since his failure. Silus languishes at Fortification Hill. More specifically, in the rocks high on the hill, from which he can spy when the Cursor arrives. She steps from the raft, thanks Lucullus, and approaches the foremost cross. A gift from Silus. He cannot discern her reaction from here. She stares for a moment, and calmly makes her way up the steps. She sees him, nods a polite greeting, but does not approach.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Lucius is taking his supper when Silus approaches him. He sits at the bench opposite and asks, “How does one court a woman?”

The Praetorian guard’s eyebrows go up in curiosity, but he finishes his mouthful before speaking. “I assume you speak of the only woman around here worth courting?”

Silus nods solemnly, trying not to make eye contact. He doesn’t like Lucius. He feels inferior around Lucius- unbefitting for a centurion.

“Simple. You don’t. She courts you.” He smiles lightly, and returns his attention to his coyote steak. Silus takes his cue to leave.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“ “My Minerva”? What is that, the new My Sharona?”

Silus turns from where he’s perched on the cliff. Erin is standing behind him a ways, hands on her hips. She sits beside him without being invited. “What?”

She snaps her fingers to a memorized beat. “ _M-m-m-my Sharona!_ ” She smiles at him, and then bumps her shoulder to the Brotherhood of Steel pauldron on his. “And I really do appreciate the sentiment of dedicating a crucifixion to me, but I liked Lieutenant Boyd. Though, I have to say, the little poem you did in her blood was sweet, if not linguistically lacking. I think that would have been enough.”

Silus doesn’t want to look at her; it’ll make him nervous. “ _Facta non verba_.”

“Aha, true!’ she laughs heartily. It’s been far too long since he’s heard a laugh like that. “So, you’re a little iffy on Legion rules, right? You drink?”

He shakes his head. “Ah, c’mon! You look like a scotch man. You a scotch man?”

The centurion watches the water, so he isn’t tempted to look at her. A thought, to before the Legion: to brahmin with packs, enough ammo to sell, a 9mm that felt right, and a scream, and a decanus, and a white flag, and a broken bottle of scotch fueling the fire of all the junk, and bullets, and overpriced chems, and his life. “I used to be.”

“Well,” she says with a glance his way, “I _may_ have smuggled in a bottle or two, and I _may_ be in the weather monitoring station at, say, nine-o'clock tonight?”

Silus swallows, and at long last, nods tightly.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He keeps the machete on his belt when he goes to her. He fears her enough to know that she’ll make good on the promise to end him if she pleases, and respects her enough to prepare for it. She’s waiting for him in jeans and undershirt, the rest of her clothes in a disorganized pile near the weather equipment (where sits a half-empty bottle and two shot glasses), topped with a gleaming 9mm. She must have snuck it in. He expects no less of her. Six glances at the gadget on her arm. “Nine-twenty. You’re late.” She smiles brightly, if not controlled as she makes eye contact. “Take off your clothes.”

He is hesitant, which amuses her, and makes him slow. She doesn’t seem particularly interested in the act of undressing, and pushes off the wall to stand before him, dwarfed, misleadingly. He stops moving as she removes the pauldrons, the swath of fabric over his shoulder (she frowns a bit at this one, and he does not know why), and breastplate. Then she lowers herself to her knees, and disappears under his skirt, reaching to the back of either of his legs and undoing his greaves. From there, she touches him.

He does not give a second thought when she removes his machete, because her own clothes come next. He doesn’t need it. She only slaps him because he asks- because they both enjoy it. She focuses on pleasuring herself, and Silus focuses on pleasuring her, too. He does not speak, and she doesn’t need to, as her eyes tell him everything she wants, and her predatory smile gives way to lips parted in gasping exertion, and satisfied whines and moans. He groans when he finishes, and he had expected that part to be disappointing, because it means it’s over, but when it is, she kisses him. He murmurs, “ _Minerva_.” She tastes like scotch.

She dresses quickly, out of his range of vision; Silus is too drained to twist his head. She has taken his energy, all she wanted of him, and he has never felt more purposeful. It’s good, to devote oneself to something, other than oneself.

Erin tucks the 9mm in the inside of her jacket, and smiles as she sets what's left of the scotch beside him. She does not kiss him again. Silus doesn’t mind.

 

 


	2. Optional Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where the real angst happens. Read on, if you're into that.

Courier Six enters Lucius’s tent quietly, and watches him clean his ballistic fist, back to her. “Did you enjoy yourself?” he says.

Erin strides into the tent and puts her hands on his shoulders. “A better evening than most in the Wastes, but really a disappointing job at it. Don’t I do enough work around here as it is?”

“More than any one Legionary.” Lucius replies, cleaning the shotgun barrels.

“Exactly! Can’t I enjoy a good fuck every once in a while, let someone else do the work? He’s dead weight.” She drapes her arms over his chest, and rests a chin on his shoulder to watch.

“Then why bother with him?”

“To get the creepy prick off my back. Give him a quick tumble, hopefully he’ll lay off for a while.”

“It will, only last a while. He owes his life to you.”

“Then at least I got something for the effort. It only has to last to the end of the week. Caesar doesn’t tolerate failure. He’ll be executed by then, at the latest. I’m only sticking around long enough to watch before I get back to desert-trekking.”

Lucius fits the glove back on his hand, and twists his head to look at her. “Devilish woman.”

Her voice goes very low. “You love it.”

He kisses her, barely, comfortably, and Erin murmurs, “This time, Minerva won’t save him.”

She kisses him, again. She tastes like scotch. Lucius doesn’t mind.


End file.
